


Rook Island Gothic

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 3
Genre: Angst, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Racism, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Analysis, Character Study, Chinese Mythology & Folklore, Creepy, Creepypasta, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Magic, Disturbing Themes, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Eerie, Fluff, God Complex, Gothic, Halloween Challenge, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Introspection, Literary References & Allusions, Modern Piracy, Mythology References, OC, One Shot, Organized Crime, Original Characters - Freeform, Other, Prostitution, References To Magic, Ritualistic, Sex Work, Supernatural - Freeform, Unfinished, Voodoo, haunted, tribes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-07-13 22:38:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16027421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: Strange things happen on this remote South Pacific Archipelago.Under stranger circumstances, for strange reasons, to even stranger individuals.☠|Halloween-inspired One-Shot Collection|





	1. V     a     a     s

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

He knows the secrets of the island - his ancestral home.  
The jungle has eyes here - Vaas sees them all staring back him sometimes.  
Draws and re-creates what he feels he perceives on the run-down, derelict walls of his compound - lidless, unblinking.  
Fills the abandoned storage halls with the makeshift graffiti of gazes in multiple colors - a childlike hobby.  
He's really not even sure why he bothers scribbling and spraying each and every one of them on.  
When he has free time, drunk from a stupor, high as a kite, waking up in the middle of night.

 

 

 

He has no answers as to why he indulges in such a vapid, nearly fanatical obsession.

Except that he knows that he must and that the urge is irresistible, like a pull.

 

 

 

He's tripping on the OCD hard as fuck, no doubt.

 

 

 

He finds himself snapping back to consciousnesses somewhere after midnight covered in cold sweat in a heavy, drifting state trapped between reality and a foggy, nightmarish sleep while his men are collectively snoring in soulful, intoxicated slumbers with the arms by their sides surrounded by empty beer bottles and needles - with a handful of solitary guards smoking on guard-duty nearby and chattering quietly, feeling as if though he was being watched by some otherworldly, supernatural force he couldn't quite name the entire time - someone would say it's the side effects of his lifestyle - the coca and the molly - but, he knows better then that - The Rakyat always had old fireplace tribal stories about the spirits that inhabited this place since time immemorial - before the first settlers, before colonization, before Hoyt, before recorded history itself, before the first boat was ever crafted to traverse the ocean and find and chart this place - living in the soil, the rocks, the waterfalls, the rivers, the very trees - the old gods - demons - sprites - the souls of their forefathers - they guard their home by being reborn anew as ever-watchful eyes - millions of them - more then he could count - and Vaas is convinced nobody can see them but him. His sister once could. Citra once first showed him to spot them from between the tunnel of countless branches that covered their makeshift, mossy playground in shadow. She taught him the skill reserved only to the select few. Then promptly betrayed him. He was almost certain she passed unto him the knowledge purely to torment him in a very strange, roundabout way. So he'd be perpetually stay aware of haunting, whirling force that was all around him, night and day and always - never getting a moment of peace. She was like that, his sister - even her kindness had a tinge of venom and wickedness to it. Ulterior motives, even in her tutoring. And now, what he's seen, he cannot ever unsee again.

 

 

 

So, Vaas draws.

 

 

 

And at this point, the eyes are everywhere.  
The rooftops of his barracks, whatever ruined house he encounters.  
By the side of the road, on bridges, on the huts of the villages he raided and burned down.  
The wrecked ships sinking in the bays pillaged and forsaken - serving as a playground reclaimed by the tides of the sea.

 

 

 

Ever-present and always watching.


	2. B    u    c    k

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

There's an old Chinese folktale, that the entire world is merely the head of a sleeping giant, and when he returns from his deep, ancient slumber, civilization as we know it will come to an end - well, in fact, from analytical standpoint, every culture in history had similar beliefs for centuries - no, millennia - the Mayas, the Incas, the Norse, the Celts, the various tribes of Africa from east to west, even the Rakyat natives of Rook themselves - everyone - it seems like a thing every ethnicity, nation and race on earth had in common ever since the beginning of recorded history, but something about this myth in general drives his attention - pushes his focus - he cannot tell what it is - what makes an obscure set of story-like anecdotes that he picked up from a dusty old tome dug up from the wreckage of a collapsed world war II war-plane overgrown by thick, green jungle moss more special then any other he's encountered so far (and he has encountered many), but Buck cannot shake off the feeling that the Chinese translated and simplified version in particular - specifically, compared to any other, was, well - meant for him somehow. For some reason.

 

 

 

And sure, Hoyt would tell him to get a grip.  
That it was just another way for him to procrastinate.  
Avoid his duties - dodge responsibility and be a, quote on quote "slob".  
And yes, he ain't wrong - he confesses he's always been a man keen on leisure and relaxation.

 

 

But, sailing off the shores of the old 'Straya and down to this archipelago for business, well -

 

 

It made his feet heavy.

 

 

Only reason Buck would find himself willingly moving nowadays was to dig up the treasures he knew were laying there, swallowed and submerged under a bed of seaweed - in underwater caves nobody ever explored - deep in the forest - in mountainous passages - inside the labyrinth of never-ending palm-trees, the thing calling to him like a wolf-howl in the middle of the night, nearly jolting him awake, or have someone do it for him a second time after he's already dug up the bloody thing - it was entertainment - amusement - he wasn't sure why it was so darn cheeky to watch some poor sod break his back trying to retrieve an ornamental, elaborately-carved twelfth century Chinese ritual dagger for him for the fifth roundabout time after he's already personally discovered it _and lost it_ on purpose all in the same week, but it just was. Felt like routine, at this point. Sheer habit. Would even dare to call it an obsession. And he had his obsessions, alright - young, soft arse-cheeks included. But, this? This one he couldn't quite rationalize. Well, maybe with the fact he was a man prone on literature and stories in general, but still -

 

 

 

Did he ever mention there's an old Chinese folktale that claims the world is merely the head of a sleeping giant?

The ingrained thought crossed his mind when he discarded his knife, no doubt, for the hundredth time.

Waiting to instruct some miserable fella' that comes his way to go and fetch it back for him - again.


	3. W  i   l   l   i   s

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Man, he was far from the good U, S of A out here - that was for sure.

 

With 13,109 km's, 8,146 miles from Papua New Guinea to the States and fourteen hours of direct travel.

 

Uncharted, remote, and not appearing on any maps (predictable), he could openly say that he was all on his own as an insider.

 

 

 

And he was indeed ingrained in the culture here, if you could even call it that - dressing up like a crook (his tailored white suit, purposefully going for the 80's Miami Vice, Scarface look) acting like a crook (not being above visiting rundown brothels, shady motels and seedy bars) walking like a crook (slowly, leisurely - acting like he was meant to be here all along to avoid raising suspicion by acting shady or frightened, attempting fit in while the local flora and fauna) and talking like a crook (with the frequent use of the word _"kapiche?"_ for that stereotypical, corny tropicana flavor and all), Willis liked to believe he had it made. He and agent B, namely Becker were tightly embedded in whatever operation the likes of Hoyt Volker, their prime target of observation, was running here. Cocaine. Weapons. Hookers. Extortion. Ethnical Cleasing. Organs, for all he knew - a wonderful man - just like his war-profiteering, illegal diamond-smuggling daddy back home decades prior in _"Seff Efrika"_ under the Apartheid the way someone with Hoyt's particular accent would say, Willis would derive all the wicked satisfaction in the world dethroning this self-proclaimed fucker for uncle Sam and bringing his ass to justice for all the American citizens, tourists and property damaged under the pressure of his activities in this part of the world. America. Home of the brave. Agent Sam Becker was his only connection to home out here and even he became lost midway in contact when he placed himself directly behind their suspect, taking up covert employment as Volker's hired privateer - private muscle - and raising in ranks to his second-in-command. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. The nearer they got to their end goal, the further away they were in the process. Ironic. Now, Huntley was trained not to get emotionally attached or compromised, but something about the isolation. How unimaginably far this place was from everything. Everything he knew. The outside world - almost as if this fucking island was a black, blurry dot on the radar apart from everywhere else in an alternate universe all on it's own made him feel, well - abandoned. Claustrophobic. At least his ex-wife and mother-in-law couldn't pester him out here, but still, all jokes aside.

 

 

 

 

The hidden radio station he and Sam spoke in Morse pretty much stood empty for years now.  
White, buzzing static filling the channel, like the haunting of a ghost - nobody responding to the code-names or calls from the other side.  
Willis Huntley hasn't tried getting in touch with Sam Becker for ages now (maybe he was a goner at this point), feeling like whatever progress they made was being eaten away by the mutual silence.

 

 

 

 

The same eerie silence cloaking the jungle perimeters outside of his base of operations like an infinite veil.

So far away from everywhere else.


	4. J   a  s   o   n

 

  

* * *

 

 

He rolls in like a roaring canon-ball waiting to be lit - to this place where he buried his last fucks to give.

 

 

 

 

Jason always knew he wanted to be much, much more then he already was - dreamed of it even - fantasized beyond frequently since childhood - and in that sense, he and Liza, a long-term, on and off girlfriend, were similar. But, where she dreamed the dreams of an every-man. A neat little wedding for them and all of their friends. Bills. Children. An utilitarian commonplace house. Taxes. Jobs and career choices both of them will end up eventually hating, alongside each other, as they proceed getting older, grayer, balder, fatter, more boring and certainly more tired - joints creaking in pain just like everything else about them - his dreams were like a stubborn hunger that followed him all the way out here and everywhere else he stepped foot on. Loud. Jarring. Hard to ignore. He visited here on a vacation with his brothers and parashooted in on a collective whim - one of several this year alone - trying to get away from it, partially. Attempting to escape or bypass it somehow and clear his head out with some salty, humid beach air. That was the initial plan. And he's been everywhere so far. Parties on Ibiza. Parties in Morocco and Parties in LA. This? Just another random stop on the map before he moves on and ends up fuck knows where and updates his Instagram portfolio with even more globetrotting photographies decorated with a summery, bright filter. Thing is, what made this place different from lets say, his trip to Goa Island in India with Oliver Carswell where they got high off of some quality import stuff and tried actual Nepalese Nagrillas for the first time is that his signature hunger became irresistible and almost too hard to bear out here, the second he landed, perhaps even before, as the island vista opened up below him on the surface, enveloped by clouds and the oceanic aqua-blue of the algae all around, cornering the white shoreline - it was a magnetic pull, as cheesy as that sounded to Jason at the time, where he all too fondly started remembering all the various times he's imagined himself an action hero, a movie protagonist, a champion straight out of a game, or a literary novel's main character.

 

 

 

And then, as you have it, they ran into a crime syndicate - of course - typical.  
They got captured.  
Grant died.  
They all got separated.  
He ran, deep, deep into the dark.  
Jason killed someone for the first time - and then like fifteen times more.

 

 

And everything went to shit.

 

 

 

It was then, probably, that he came to the uncomfortable, disturbing epiphany, that in spite of his fear, his pain, his panic, his suffering over a dead sibling who's body he couldn't even retrieve, bury or return to their mother, another kidnapped - poor, poor Riley - his companions facing death or worse, no doubt, his significant other held hostage by an insane, kooky maniac straight out of a blockbuster, his insecurity and wrath and everything, boiling up inside of him - the figurative cannonball in his head finally igniting and exploding - he actually enjoyed this situation. The danger. The excitement. The adrenaline. The uncertainty. Like a high of youth, energy, strength and power all at once - and like any drug, he just couldn't get enough - could stop at any moment, but he didn't wish to. He loved it. Deep, deep down. He did. Guiltily. In a self-loathing way. Ashamed and into it at the same time. Felt like he was waiting for him and his friends to end in this situation all his life purely so it would come to this. As much as he hated it, it was true. It was who he was. A thrill-seeker. A hypocrite thrill-seeker. Nonetheless, he was living out his fantasy. He was in control. The master of his own story-line. The man. He didn't just have look up to Rambo.

 

 

 

Now, he _was_ Rambo.


	5. C   i   t   r   a

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

She has a makeshift, limpy, snitched-up rag-doll in the likeness of every man she ever mounted or spread her legs for.

 

 

 

 

 

And she pinches it, on occasion - sticks pins and needles into the soft, tattered fabric - strips naked, covered in nothing but the mixed up berries, petals and fruit used to create the crimson of the warpaint she so prefers on her skin, lights her candles and drapes the empty, ancient halls of her dusty temple into a ceremonial, heavy sort of silence with the stone-faced engravings of her gods and ancestors carefully watching from the walls as she vivisects strategically, what place, what part of the doll's body she'll dedicate her chantings and ministrations to this time - what someone would call a ritual - but something Citra merely views as habit - during these seances, nobody is allowed in her presence and she shuts herself off for days sometimes, speaking to nobody, seeing nobody, refusing to sleep and eating nothing - thinking of all the elaborate ways she could possibly make a man lose his damn mind to her charms and she has thousands of dolls at this point, just lined up, waiting to be used - would-be Rakyat champions desperately competing for her favor, sailors from afar who have abandoned their way and ended up in her snare, foreign poachers who believed her to be yet another fine piece of prey for sport only to be proven the opposite, frightened locals venturing too deep into the jungle to behold the queen of the island and seek her advice, tourists like Jason Brody - some confused, precious little homeless, rootless wondering drifter like Dennis, looking for a living deity and a sense of belonging he's found nowhere else, or even Vaas himself - Citra had one for each and every one of them - some have a tiny dagger in their cottony heart and some have their head cut off. Some, she merely teases on occasion with a random jab or nudge of steel to the limbs because she can - using knives, feathers, matches, her fingers, her teeth and whatever else she pleases. Her brother's doll, on the other hand? That one she burned up entirely, leaving it a charred, blackened mess, barely recognizable and only hardly distinguishable from a pile of ash only slightly held together by a collective of loose, greasy strings she drenched in her own menstrual blood, to make him as mad and as feral for her as he possibly could be. Fitting, metaphorically. Nature's own love elixir. No less magical then breathing air. And magic? Magic _is_ real. To the Rakyat, merely tradition, something passed on from one generation to the next.

 

 

 

But, sometimes, feeling particularly playful, she eats men's hearts raw and uncooked.  
The belief that consuming your foes grants you their strength entirely true and as old as time itself, in her opinion.

 

 

 

Why and how she be who and what she is today - _a goddess._

 

 

 

 

 

Observed in the forest she calls her abode itself, the female of a black widow spider first mates with her male and then tears him apart in her sticky, deadly web limb from limb because it's simply natural selection and the way things are intended to be - the survival of the fittest - not good or evil, merely reality - a practice Citra herself has wholeheartedly adopted now that her Rakyat kindred sacrifice her own lovers to her and present him to her on a platter as an appetizer - she sleeps with them, she uses their skills in battle, exhausts their bodies for pleasure, she plays them like pawns, and once she has nothing else to use them for, she feasts on them knowing that every supernatural force, every diety, every saint, every patron, every totem demands an offering and she no less then others - even the ocean herself takes whatever she desires - sunken ships, sunken villages, sunken temples, sunken drowned sailors on the shore and entire sunken civilizations hidden beneath the surface of her home and by the eternal splashing of the aquatic, coral waves - what's a mere mortal then, in comparison to such a insurmountable, unimaginable force?

 

 

 

 

 

And after all - men die, it's practically all they're good for.

At least, like this, they die with a lofty purpose.


	6. H   o   y    t

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Of course he's heard the rumors.  
The whispers that he's the root of all evil on this archipelago.  
And of course, a very wicked, perverse, dark part of him was pleased by the moniker the locals stamped upon him.

 

 

 

These godforsaken, unwashed, backwards, idiotic savages - it amused him, partially.

 

 

 

Hoyt Volker was Armageddon. And Hoyt Volker didn't believe in superstitions. Magical hall a-balloo. Tribal nonsense. Jungle madness. He came out of deepest, blackest Africa in the 80's, like goddamn King Hannibal himself, with a virtual armada of smuggling ships through international waters, leaving law and land and ties to any and every country behind and landed on the shores of this piece of dirt on the in the middle of nowhere and singlehandedly built an empire out of rocks, bamboo, sand, shit, piss and muddy shacks and made himself the crowning jewel of this business over the past two decades - it wasn't make belief or fantasy - it was his own hard fucking work. It didn't take no idol, deity or god to give him everything. He gave himself everything. Took what he wanted, when he wanted it. He was his own master. The ethic his father taught him. Regardless, his old man was always convinced he'd amount to nothing and now here he was - the inhabitants of his little slice of paradise fearing him so much they were convinced he's the literal devil incarnate. From nobody to a nightmare - how ironic. But, one of those nights (the shitty and overly long ones), which he spent overworking himself between office binges, smoke breaks, coke breaks, liquor breaks and short, sleepless power-naps on his studded-leather couch, he had the weirdest of dreams, if one wills; Something akin to an ink monster, if he could even call it that, staring at him with flaming eyes on the edge of reality.

 

 

 

 

Now, Hoyt doesn't get frightened easily - but he was - offended too, more like it. Pure gooseshit.

 

 

 

 

The semi-literate, pesky barbarians deep in the jungle worshiped things like these -

Demons, creatures, outdated caricatures, monoliths, the motherfucking muppets from the Muppet Show for all he knew.

Buck's Chinese emperors, WWII Kamikaze fighters, Argentinian drug runners - these assholes all passed through here and left something behind.

This island very much reeked of forgotten mass-graveyards, abandoned temples he'd rather have demolished and people tripping on suicide.

Hoyt felt, begrudgingly, like he brought nothing new about, merely continuing a per-existing pattern he couldn't fathom, predating civilization.

He wouldn't even be the first actual slaver this place saw during it's hay-day, it was some guy called Ching-Chong or other.

He always, wickedly enough, for his personal satisfaction, wanted to be this island's first and last tyrant - _the tyrant._

 

 

 

The deciding factor - the one and only.

 

 

 

 

But, what if he wasn't the worst thing out there - what if it was the soil itself - something about the rocky foundation below the ocean's core?

 

To be frank, Hoyt Volker felt a tad bit insulted by the idea - that there's something far greater and fouler then him out there.

 

That might outlive both him and his work by a thousand years and still be here once he's gone.


	7. L    i    z    a

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

She was in love with a man that didn't exist and she was losing whatever was still left of his past self.

 

Enamored with the very idea, rather then the person itself.

 

 

 

Liza's relationship with Jason was in shambles for a while now, despite her best efforts to conceal it and play the part of the happy couple - this trip, as one of many, only an excuse to prolong the inevitable and avoid facing actual facts; He was not reliable. He was not interested. He was unable to commit. He was refusing to grow up. Take responsibility for anyone. Be an adult or a viable significant other. Simple as. Liza knew that. She did for ages, actually - but proceeded beating around the bush in the hopes that he would eventually change and become a man like Grant. Or any man as for that matter. A Man with a capital M. She was an actress by profession, though - she could recognize when someone was only semi-pretending to be immersed into something all while his attentions were drawing him further away from the root of their issues; He was very much most likely in the most convincingly dedicated relationship with himself, as opposed to anyone else. Yes, she felt like a bother. Like a very silent burden. Like she was holding him back from doing whatever he wanted. She was slowly becoming a nagging, boring girlfriend stereotype. When the hell did that happen to her? She used to be the bubbly, fun, cool, carefree chick. Now, she was going through every phase of Amy Dunne's infamous mental-breakdown from Gone Girl passively, without anyone even noticing - almost feeling a disgusting sense of relief when she was captured by a rag-tag group of, well, pirates of all things (is this the 21st century, of the 16th?), headed by the atrocity that called himself Vaas Montenegro to distract her from the fact that in world balancing on one-sided romantic issues, there was a whole slur of things going from bad to worse to downright terrible. Her unfortunate hostage situation made her realize something; Well, when she wasn't being forced to cry on live camera for the morbid satisfaction of her jailers, that is;

 

 

 

Jason was already a far better actor then she will ever even hope to be in case she survives this -

Lives to make a career for herself and fulfill everything she's ever dreamed about on a professional plan.

 

 

 

Meanwhile, she was entirely atrocious as a performer.  
Her worst role to date; the happy girlfriend on an exotic trip.  
The freedom-loving feminist girl who thinks commitments and labels are so very passe.  
The globetrotting Instagram chick who's convinced marriage, routine, kids and norm are for losers.  
The adventurer who never wants to settle down, have a home, an address or a stable life.  
The happy-go-lucky tourist who thinks ovaries are a mere organic fashion statement.  
The one who avoids arguing even when warranted because "arguing isn't sexy".  
Spirited, easy-going and cheeky even when she was breaking on the inside.  
This island, it was meant to be another escape, but it opened her eyes;

 

 

 

She didn't need an otherworldly champion wrestling down tigers - she just wanted a simple man.

 

A simple man that's hers and hers alone - and to stop pretending she's ashamed of the fact.


	8. S     a     m

 

 

* * *

 

 

Today, unfortunately, he killed another person - total count; 354, so far.

 

 

 

Disciplined and roughed him up for insubordination on Hoyt's behalf for stealing rations and selling them off cheaper to the other soldiers stationed around camp for months - petty pocketing, more like it, but Volker sure knew how to hold a grudge with under-the-table deals behind his back - direct orders - make the kid pay for it, double - must've punctured an artery or something - got carried away making an example out of the misbehaving poor sucker of a Privateer and had him bleed to death by accident from shock, trauma and several open wounds on the squeaky, wooden chair he was strapped to around approximately five AM in the morning, give or take, with the first cracks of a pale, red dawn peeking in through the barred, iron dungeon window - the camera feed still turned on, even now, post-mortem, so Hoyt could watch-in on the action live from his office and rewind at will as many times as he pleased, having a cigar break, like some kind of vile snuff-film connoisseur would. Not that Hoyt minded the accidental murder on his turf, no doubt. Only thing he probably minded at this moment is that this _Blödhammel_ (in translation, _stupid idiot_ , incidentally, he was brushing up on what he learned from the dictionary) couldn't suffer even longer for breaking the rules. And nobody - nobody breaks the rules on this island and lives to tell the tale.

 

 

 

Age; around thirty something, easy estimation.  
Origins; American, white - ex-military import muscle from abroad.  
Looks; buzz-cut, muscular, tall, mean - the type that usually takes these jobs.  
How he got here; got dishonorably discharged for killing a private, court-martialed, served jail time, couldn't find employment afterwards.  
Known family; Dead parents, no spouse, no children, no immediate blood-relative - nobody that would really miss him or mourn him.

 

 

 

Sam Becker knew his kind too well - they come here, thinking it's easy money, that they get to murder and harass and rape and supposedly have their share of the spoils, but sooner or later, they make the wrong move, the wrong step, the anger the wrong people, step on a couple of toes - and poof - they're gone. Just like that. Kaput! He's seen his share of eager, bloodthirsty, loud young men with their fingers on the trigger come and go and he's outlived them all by a decade. With nobody to remember or care. They just had the habit of tossing their nameless, unmarked carcasses into the ocean or stuffing them all together into mass graves circling Hoyt's compound like a swampy, wet, blood-drenched halo of death. Now, Sam felt bad enough often carrying out these executions personally, sure. But, to think someone's poor _mutti_ is out there, on other side of the world, is worrying why her idiotic, big, dumb, hotheaded mess of a son is taking so long coming back from that wonderful career opportunity overseas that's gonna make him a shitload of money he told her about, that's really a contract killer job for an international kingpin? Well, that just broke his heart, even though most of these youngest are pure _scheisse_. And well, obviously, he can't just light 354 candles in his bunker, even during his downtime. That would be suspicious, impractical and plain _sonderbar_ , no? Excessive.

 

 

 

But he does light one, secretly, for everyone - everyone lost and murdered and shot and beheaded and burned - including himself.

Hoping he'll be forgiven, for everything's he done, seen and become while undercover here.

 

 

 

But, as the light slowly burns out and leaves a smoky trail, Sam feels lost and replaced with that one frightful bald German who's role he's playing.

 

Some unusual, blue-eyed monstrosity in the darkness he doesn't quite know.


End file.
